Lunaria doesn’t change.
She evolves.

There’s been no rupture, no break.
Only a shift — inward, precise, inevitable.
The music we’re writing now comes from the same place as the first: a space of silence and tension, where shapes become sound.

But something has changed in the landscape.
The shadows we once conjured — the echoes of the ’80s, the nocturnal and decadent electronics — we must now move beyond them.
We don’t deny them. We’ve passed through them.
And because of that, we can go further.

The direction is clearer now. Colder. More structured.
We imagine a future not far from now, and shape it into music.
Not to escape the present, but to explore what lies ahead.

Lately, some viewers have accused us of using artificial intelligence to create Lunaria.
They say it with contempt, as if there were nothing behind that voice and those images.
But Lunaria is not generated by a machine.
She is the result of days and nights of work by myself and by PZ: motion capture, vocal synthesis, 3D modeling, sound design, mastering. It’s a complex, artisanal process.
Not a click.

And yet those comments left a trace.
Because they reveal something: a fear.
The fear of a change that’s approaching — one that concerns all of us.
That’s what made me reflect.

Lunaria is not artificial intelligence.
She’s not an algorithm, nor a fictional character.
Lunaria Payne is an emanation of mine — and of PZ, of course — a voice and a shape born from my thoughts, my emotions, our shared vision.
In this sense, she exists.
Truly exists.

And from today, she will exist in a time slightly ahead of our own.
A possible time.
Where we, perhaps, will arrive too.

The music will always bear my signature. The electronics, the darkness, the melancholy.
And Lunaria Payne will always be my cybernetic angel.

If you want to hear her, Lunaria will be there.
Waiting.